


Everyone needs saving sometimes

by Tame_my_wild_heart



Category: Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 00:38:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18981619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tame_my_wild_heart/pseuds/Tame_my_wild_heart
Summary: A chance encounter leads to much more





	Everyone needs saving sometimes

Chapter 1

They cut a memorable picture as they walked through the park. One tall, casually dressed in a light suit; his military bearing evident, although tempered with a relaxed, good-humoured expression. The other was shorter clad in a three piece suit complete with wing collar, attire which seemed wholly out of place on a rare day of hot British sunshine. Despite looking as different as two people possibly could, the two were the best of friends. They were taking advantage of the glorious weather and enjoying a stroll through the park on their way to a lunch appointment. As they walked through the trees in companiable silence, a figure collided with them. She brushed off their attempts to help her to her feet and ran off. The shorter of the two men knelt down to examine something on the ground, while his friend was staring after the rapidly retreating figure. “I say! That was jolly rude, don’t you think?” He glanced down at his friend. “I say, Poirot, girls these days…What are you doing?”  
Poirot rose to his feet, his gloves hand curled into a fist. He opened it to reveal a ladies’ chain. Suspended from it was a plain gold band. He turned it round in his fingers, examining it. When he was finished, he held it out to his companion. “See for yourself, Hastings.”  
Obediently Hastings took it and held it up to the light. It was a plain gold wedding ring. Trying it on established that it was made for a female finger, and it’s shininess suggested it was either new or not often subjected to the elements. There was no name inside, but there was an inscription. My wife for life. Hastings raised one eyebrow and wordlessly handed the ring back to Poirot. As they happened to be having lunch with Inspector Japp, they decided to give it to him, in the hope that he could locate its owner.  
Reaching Poirot’s favourite bistro, they had been seated and were in the middle of relating the incident to Japp, when the approaching waitress gasped in shock. As one, the three men turned to look at them. The surprise on the faces of two of them made it clear they recognized her. Hastings was on his feet in an instant. “It’s you! You were in the park. You ran into us. You dropped this.” He held out the chain. The ring swung from the bottom of it. As she reached out for it, the cuff of her sleeve rode up her arm, just enough to reveal some thin white marks on her wrist. She grabbed the chain and put it on, her hands still shaking. Just as Hastings reached for her, she blurted out her thanks and scampered off.  
The three men exchanged glances. There was more to this, they could tell.

 

Chapter 2

Back at their flat, Hastings flipped through a golfing catalogue. Occasionally he glanced over at Poirot. Poirot sat at his desk, his chin resting on his steepled fingers. Hastings sighed and tossed his catalogue aside. Getting to his feet, he paced the floor. “You know, I think that girl was afraid of me.” The mere thought of it made him uneasy.  
“Hastings, did you observe the little marks on her wrist?” He pulled on his sleeve to indicate what he meant.  
“No, why? You think somebody hurt her?” His old-fashioned sensibilities were sparking the gentlemen inside him.  
“I am not sure-yet. But I wonder just what she is so afraid of.” He rose and pulled on his jacket.  
“Where are you going?”  
“Back to the bistro, Hastings. I want to know who she is. Are you coming? It may prove interesting.”  
Hastings grabbed his hat from the hall stand and followed him out. Poirot set a brisk pace, and they found themselves back at the restaurant in a little over twenty minutes. The manager was occupied by the telephone and the extra delay was clearly grating on Captain Hastings’ nerves. Poirot laid a hand on his arm. “Mon ami, calm yourself. With a little luck, the manager will give us the young lady’s address and we shall lend her what assistance we can. If not, we shall come to lunch, every day if need be, until we see her again.”  
“You don’t really think she’s being hurt, do you?”  
Poirot smiled a little. “Your beautiful nature makes you unable to believe that a man could behave so. But you are too intelligent not to know what some men are capable of. The inscription in the ring, perhaps a declaration of passion, however there is something malevolent in those few words, I think.”  
When the manager returned he was less than helpful. “I’m sorry gentlemen, that particular young woman no longer works here.”  
Hastings gaped at the man in shock. “We were here for lunch. What could she possibly have done in the last six hours to warrant dismissal?”  
“She had it coming, I’m sorry to say. More than a few customers had complained about her attitude of late. Three times she dropped a tray full of dishes, and the final straw, today I caught her stealing food from the kitchen. That sort of behaviour costs us money.”  
“Can you at least give us her address? Or should we come back with Chief Inspector Japp? I’m sure the presence of a police inspector would interest your customers.”  
Poirot said nothing throughout Hastings’ speech, choosing instead to observe the manager’s body language. For a waitress to steal food from her place of work there had to be something very wrong, and for the man to be so unconcerned about the well-being of one of his staff was beginning to anger him. The manager scribbled on a piece of notepaper and thrust it at Poirot. “Your friend is a romantic.”  
Poirot tucked the note inside his wallet and shrugged. “Mais oui. Perhaps we both are. Come, Hastings. Au revoir, monsieur.” He tipped his hat, more out of habit than a sincere wish to be polite.  
Back out on the street, both men breathed a sigh of relief. They headed in the direction of the address they had been given. It was down a dusty side street, a second floor flat in a six-storey block. Much of the building seemed to be in disrepair; cracked windows and dingy, peeling paintwork. A number of flats appeared to be uninhabited but at the end of the second floor, potted plants stood either side of what must have been the cleanest looking door in the place. Hasting knocked twice and waited. Silence greeted them. Poirot bent to peer through the letterbox. He could see down the hallway and nothing appeared amiss. Craning his neck he could just manage to see the bottom of the stairs. He straightened quickly, cursing in French. “Hastings, we must break down this door.”  
Trusting that his friend was right and knowing he was not given to flights of fancy. Hastings stepped back and shoulder charged the door. It buckled but did not break. Three more attempts and the door flew open with a bang, crashing against the wall. His forward momentum carried him into the flat, almost falling over the crumpled figure on the floor. Sharing a horrified look with Poirot, he knelt down beside her. Pressing his fingers against her neck he was rewarded with a pulse, faint but steady. With both hands on her neck to keep it stable, together they gently turned her onto her back.

 

Chapter 3

 

The sight that greeted them was horrific. One side of her face was puffy and swollen, an ugly red mark spread across her cheek. An angry hand print encircled her neck and her body was littered with scratches. It must have been a vicious attack. Poirot went in search of a phone. He found it in pieces, so left to find a working one. Hastings remained where he was, cradling the broken girl. He didn’t move till he heard the door open. He looked up, expecting to see Poirot. It wasn’t.  
Standing in the door was a giant of a man. Tall and wide, he almost filled the doorway. As he took two steps into the room, Hastings slowly rose to his feet. Not taking his eyes off him, he carefully stepped over the prostrate girl, determined to keep himself between her and the man he presumed was responsible for her current condition.   
The brute growled in a low, menacing tone. “Get away from my wife.”  
“Go to hell.” Hastings wasn’t going to cede to a bully.  
“My wife is none of your business. Someone ought to teach you what happens when you shove your nose into other people’s lives.”  
“And maybe somebody should teach you how to treat a lady.”  
The thug stepped forward again. Hastings stood his ground. “I am not afraid of you.”  
“You soon will be.” He pulled out a cosh from somewhere on his person and swung wildly. Not quite prepared for the move, Hastings wasn’t able to entirely avoid the attack. The impact caught him a glancing blow across his shoulder. Regaining his footing, he made a grab for the weapon. Struggling with the man’s bulk, he managed to get in a few blows before he was overpowered. As the spots danced in front of his eyes, he saw the poor girl being dragged down the hallway. Letting his own rage drag him to his feet he forced his aching body to follow them. Struggling with the door, he could hear a terrified whimper from within. Hastings knew what was about to happen. He had encountered men like that during his time in the army. The mere thought of it turned his stomach. Desperately, he kicked and hammered at the door. Finally he forced it open, he took two giant steps forward and grabbed the animal by his collar. He used all his strength to pull him off his victim and pushed him toward the wall. Crashing into it, he crumpled to the floor and was still. Pulling off his tie, he quickly tied his hands to the radiator. Satisfied that it would hold till help arrived, he turned his attention to the girl. She was curled into a tight ball, squeezed as tightly into a corner as she could get. Her face was buried in her arms and her long hair hid her from view. Needing to see her face, Hastings knelt down and slowly lifted the dark waves aside. Despite having nowhere to go, she seemed so pull father away from him, her blue eyes wide with terror and full of tears. Gently he pulled her hands away from her face. Her whole body became rigid with sheer terror and she began to scream. Looking over his shoulder, Hastings momentarily thought her assailant had broken free and was very relieved to see Poirot standing in the doorway, flanked by two constables. Fortunately they grasped the situation almost immediately and soon the unconscious man had been unceremoniously dragged from the flat. He must have woken however, because he could be heard kicking and screaming as he was forced into a police van.   
Poirot spoke in hushed tones, wary of alarming the girl further. “Hastings, she needs a doctor.” It took more than ten minutes to coax her out of her position. Slowly they walked her to the door. At the threshold, her shaking legs gave way completely. Hastings caught her before she hit the ground. He lifted her into his arms, shocked at how little she weighed. He quickly made his way out to the waiting ambulance.

 

Chapter 4

The ride to the hospital was agonisingly slow. She had flatly refused to speak even so much as her name. She just sat curled on Hastings’ lap, her fingers clutching his jacket. When the ambulance lurched to a halt and the doors were thrown open, doctors were there, pulling her from him. Terrified of strangers, she screamed and fought them. But Hastings was suddenly there. His consistent, quiet manner was starting to break through the wall of mistrust. She threw herself at him, clinging on for dear life, and wept. He rocked her gently, his hand rubbing gentle circles on her back. The sobbing slowly subsided and she took a deep, shuddering breath. He laid her on the trolley and gave her a reassuring smile. As he stepped back to give the doctors room, she spoke for the first time. “Please, do not leave me alone.” The sound tore at his heart with a pain that felt as real as the bullet that had torn through his leg in the war. He promised that he would not, and he meant it.  
Hastings retreated to the waiting area. Sighing deeply, he took a seat on the hard, uncomfortable bench. He was soon joined by Poirot and the chief inspector, the latter with a face like thunder. “How is she?”  
Hastings raised his tired eyes to Japp. “How do you think she is? She’s married to a man who uses her as a punch bag. You should see her, he’s half killed her!” A passing nurse shushed them and obediently, Hastings lowered his voice. “What did he have to say for himself?”  
“Not a great deal. I’ve met men like him, more than I care to remember, and they’re all the same. Nasty little bullies who think they’re entitled to treat their wives however they like. He won’t admit to anything, so we will need a statement from her.”  
“She’s barely spoken. We couldn’t get more than six words out of her. She wouldn’t even tell us her name.”  
“I can help you there. It’s Angelique. He reckons her parents brought her over from France when she was a nipper. Can’t find any trace of them, though. Have to ask her about it.”  
“No.” Hastings grabbed Japp’s sleeved and dragged him back from the door. “She’s terrified of strangers, especially male ones. She screams any time one goes near her.”  
“Except you, Mon ami.” Poirot’s quiet statement reminded the two men that he was there. He had a thoughtful expression on his face. “Hastings, you will have to speak with her.” He recognised the worry and fear on his friend’s face. “Oui d’accord, it turns the stomach to have to have such a conversation, but yes, it must be you. She trusts you, you make her feel safe. That is the most important thing, for her to feel she is safe. You must do this. Courage, Mon brave.” He patted Hastings’ shoulder encouragingly. A few deep breaths, and Hastings was pushing open the door.  
Poking his head round, he raised his eyebrows at the nurse, a silent request for admittance. She looked at Angelique, who gave the smallest of nods. The nurse smiled, and left the room. Hastings walked slowly into the room, cautious of making a sudden movement that might frighten her. He sat on the very edge of the bed and waited. Unwilling to speak, or even look at him, she fiddled with a loose thread on her sheet. He gently laid his hand on hers, to still her. He lifted his other hand to her chin and as he raised her head she finally turned her eyes to meet his. He saw fear and sadness, while she saw eyes full of compassion and patience. Emboldened by her apparent trust in him, he moved a little closer. Taking both of her hands in his, he waited, desperately hoping she would talk to him.  
“You stayed.”   
“I promised you I’d stay. I won’t leave you if you don’t feel safe.”  
“I never feel safe.” She didn’t realise she had spoken aloud. Hastings was just about maintaining his calm.  
“What did James say?”  
“Nothing really, just that your name is Angelique, and that your parents brought you over from France. Would you like me to call them for you?” She shook her head.  
“They were killed in a train crash when I was seven. There’s no-one else.”  
“I’m so very sorry. Is there really no-one? What about friends, someone from the bistro?”  
She shook her head. “James doesn’t like me having friends. He says if I love him I don’t need anyone else.”  
“So what will you do? My friend, he has a secretary, she’s very nice. I could get her to sit with you. I was hoping you would be up to telling me what happened today. The police need a statement, and I think it really might help, to talk, that is. She could support you now, and after the trial.”   
“There won’t be any trial. I can’t press charges against him. He’s my husband. He can’t help getting angry, and I hadn’t got myself the sack, I wouldn’t have made him mad. It’s my own fault.”  
Abhorrence filled Hastings’ very soul. He put his hands on Angelique’s shoulders and spoke calmly and slowly. “Listen to me, please. This is not your fault. James has no right to treat you so. You cannot go back to him. He might kill you next time. Please, please, don’t put yourself in danger again.”  
Angelique shrugged him off and got out of bed. “Why shouldn’t I? What else is there? I’m twenty-four, have no family, no money, no prospects. What could I offer any man except myself, and who is going to want this?” She gestured at herself. “James does, and waking up with him, whatever he might be, is better than waking up alone – when I want to die!” She pulled on her turn clothes and headed for the exit. Hastings quickly caught up to her in the waiting area. He grabbed her arm, with more force than he intended. “Angelique, please don’t.”  
She wrenched her arm away. “I have nowhere to go.” Before he had a chance to reply, she was gone.

Chapter 5

Hastings reappeared in the waiting room. Without speaking, he turned on his heel and left the hospital. Concerned, Japp and Poirot followed, just in time to see their friend disappearing in a cab without waiting for them. Needless to say, by the time they arrived back at the flat, Poirot was not best pleased. He found Hastings looking out of the window and began remonstrating with his friend’s rigid back. His tirade was silenced when his friend turned, and Poirot saw the look of abject misery on his face. He crossed the room impossibly fast and laid a hand on his compadre’s arm. Poirot’s expression turned from furious to concerned. “It must have been very hard to listen to such a tale, Mon cher. Sad to say, the gory details are necessary. Had she been able to trust in another, you could have been spared this.”  
Japp cleared his throat. “I hope you got enough detail from her. Leave the jury in no doubt and let the brute rot in hell.”  
Hastings’ shoulders began to shake. When he turned, his friends were dismayed to see him, usually so proper and British, looking so lost and defeated. “What happened, Mon cher Ami?”  
“There is no statement and there won’t be any trial. She went back to him. She tried to justify it, she defended him. She said it was her fault! She thinks she deserves it and now she’s gone back for more.” Poirot handed him a large brandy. He drained it in one swallow. Poirot said nothing, and refilled the glass. Hastings sat down heavily on the settee, cradling his drink. “How do we show her that she’s better than that? That she deserves more than to live in fear, waiting for the next time.”  
“I do not know, Hastings. But if you want her to know that she is not friendless, well, I believe that she already knows that. We can only hope that she realises it in time.” A light snore told him that Hastings had fallen asleep. Poirot half smiled and lifted his friend’s legs to make him more comfortable, removing his shoes and laying a blanket over his exhausted body.   
It was the nearly dawn when Poirot was woken by the sounds of movement in the flat. Pulling on his dressing gown, he crept into the living room, to find Hastings dressed and finishing the last of a pot of coffee. “ Hastings, it is very early. What are you doing?”  
“I’m going over there. I won’t let her stay there. I can’t do nothing while he hurts her again.”  
“So you intend to drag her kicking and screaming and demand that she go with you. This is what you think will help her? For another man to tell her where she can go and who she can or cannot see?”  
“I know it sounds bad, but dammit, I have to do something.”  
Poirot pushed Hastings into a chair. “Tell me about her. Tell to me the real reason you want to be her knight in armour. Inspector Japp has not forgotten her. He will have officers keeping a close eye on them. There is no need for this from you.”  
“I can’t explain it. Poirot, I just can’t get her out of my mind. Knowing she is alive fills me with such joy, yet seeing her in so much pain hurts my heart, as real as any wound.”  
“Ah, the famous ‘love at first sight’.”  
“Don’t tease, Poirot.”  
“I would not dream of treating you so. But I caution you, my friend. She has been very badly treated. She is traumatized. She may not want, or be able, to return your affections.”  
Hastings nodded his understanding, and left. He could only pray he would be in time.

 

Chapter 6

Hastings drove to Angelique’s flat, his mind in a blur of confusion and fear. He knew that everything Poirot had said was true. He knew he had no right to demand that she leave with him, but he also knew he couldn’t abandoned her to a life of misery and fear. When he arrived at the building, he almost gave up and turned around. What if he did her more harm by coming there. James might was possessive and obviously the jealous type. As he climbed the stairs, his brain was working over time. Cautiously, he approached the door. As he neared it, he saw it was open. He had one foot inside when he heard noises coming from the stairs leading up to the other floors. Fearing the worst, he mounted the steps, craning his neck to see further up. He saw a foot. From the way it moved, somebody was being dragged bodily up the stairs. Gearing the worst, he wanted to chargevup the remaining flights and beat the man to a pulp. He forced himself to move slowly and silently. As he got nearer he could make out what they were saying. He knew it was Angelique, he could hear her crying. “Please, James. I swear, I promise you I don’t know him. I never met him before, only when he came to the restaurant.” A pained cry followed the sound of skin on skin.  
“ Don’t lie to me. Do you think I’m stupid? Why else would he be interested in you? Why would anybody be interested in a pathetic little thing like you?”  
By now they had reached the top landing. Hastings caught up to them and came up behind them. He spoke calmly and slowly. “Let her go.”  
James swung round. His hand was tightly wound in Angelique’s hair, pulling her head back farther than could be comfortable. His other hand was at her throat. Fresh bruises covered the parts of her body that he could see. He laughed. “Look, Angie. Lover boy’s come to save you. But it won’t do you any good. Now you get to watch him watch you get punished.”  
The sheer terror on her face was all Hastings needed. He knew he was right to be there. She needed him. She needed him to save her. He spoke louder. “I said, let her go. I won’t let you hurt her again.” Hoping to catch the bigger man off guard, he rushed at him, half-wanting to pummel him into oblivion. James dropped Angelique. She hit the floor and didn’t move. James met Hastings half way and the two men wrestled with each other. Knowing he was outmatched in terms of brute force, Hastings dug into his memory and summoned his hand to hand combat skills. He ducked a few blows and dodged to the side. James’ own momentum carried him forward. There was a crash of breaking glass and he was gone. Hastings had forgotten about the window. The momentary pang of guilt was rapidly quashed by the knowledge that she was finally safe. He pulled Angelique into a sitting position and checked for new injuries. He ran his hands over her head and face. She was crying silent tears and he gently wiped them away. He wrapped his jacket round her, both to calm her trembling limbs and to cover her exposed body. He led her outside, both wishing she didn’t have to see what was left of her husband but also knowing that she needed to see that it was over, that she was finally safe. Her reaction was not what he expected. She ran to him. Hastings was afraid she was going to mourn him, but he was wrong. She was yelling at him, fists pounding his still chest, venting all of her rage and pain and shame. Unable to watch her any longer, Hastings wrapped her in his protective embrace and pulled her away. 

 

Chapter 7

Hastings had driven home as quickly as he dared. He debated taking her to the hospital, but all he wanted was to get her somewhere safe and quiet. He glanced over at her. She was staring at nothing, her eyes glazed, presumably in a state of shock. She didn’t move when he pulled up outside the flats. She didn’t move when he lifted her out of the car. She didn’t move while they were riding the lift up to Poirot’s flat. Alarmed at her unresponsiveness, he kicked at the front door until it was opened. Ignoring the many questions Poirot fired at him, he carried Angelique into his room and gently laid her on his bed. He draped a blanket over her and switched on the lamp, not wanting her to wake and find it dark. Pulling the door shut, he returned to the living room and poured himself a large whisky. By this time Japp had joined them, demanding to know how James had met his fate. Hastings had never been much good at masking his feelings and both he and Poirot recognised the guilty expression on their friends face. In shock, Hastings rambled on describing the events of the morning. Japp scribbled away in his notebook. Finally Hastings managed to make eye contact with Poirot. He was desperate to make his friend understand. “I didn’t plan to kill him. I’m not going to pretend I’m sorry, but I didn’t mean to. We were fighting, he swung at me and I dodged him. I forgot the window was there. God, Poirot, he was going to kill her. I had to stop him, get him off her, but I never meant for him to die. But if you’d seen her, she was so afraid, she knew what he was going to do to her. But I swear, I didn’t mean to kill him.”   
Japp and Poirot exchanged glances. They knew their friend. They knew he wasn’t the murdering kind. He would never kill someone intentionally, not if there was another choice. He had to be telling the truth. Japp closed his notebook and returned it to his pocket. “I can’t promise there’ll be no fallout from this Hastings, but I’ll do my best for you.” He made his farewells and left.  
A heavy silence descended, finally broken by Poirot’s assertion that coffee was in order. “You did well, my friend.”  
Hastings wondered. “Actually, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I’ve made a young woman a widow, and removed her from her home, quite possibly against her will, and brought her to a strange place. All because of my ridiculous notion of being a hero.”  
“Hastings, you do yourself an injustice. You saved her life. At this moment, nothing else matters. She is alive, she is safe. You did that. Now, I have one or two little errands, you will manage till I return? I shall arrange for her belongings to be brought here. She may feel more comfortable having her own things around her.”  
Hastings nodded absent -mindedly. “I should check on her. A hot drink perhaps, she was shivering when I brought her here.”   
Once Poirot left, Hastings made tea and, as an afterthought, some toast. He had been shocked more than once how little she seemed to weigh, and given that she had been sacked for stealing food, suggested that she was being starved. No wonder she was too weak to defend herself.  
He knocked on the door and looked inside. She was curled into a tight Ball, moaning in her sleep. While he considered listening to a person’s dreams was as much of an imposition as reading their diary, he knew he couldn’t help her otherwise. Remaining where he was, he strained to pick up what she was saying. “Please...I’m sorry...I didn’t mean to be bad...promise...be good...don’t leave me...don’t leave me in the dark” Over and over she begged for forgiveness. Hastings couldn’t listen any more. Sitting beside her, he gathered her in his arms and held her. Stroking her long hair, he waited till the terrors passed, and she woke fully. She took the proffered refreshments, devouring the toast as if she had not eaten for days. Hastings prayed that wasn’t the case. He tucked her back under the covers, and was almost out of the room, when she spoke. “Comfort me.” He looked back at her. She was sitting up, holding out her arm. Despite feeling it was very wrong, he allowed himself to be drawn to her. Wrapping his arms around her, he finally felt her responding to the contact. She returned his embrace, whispering words of gratitude in his ear. Relief flooded his being, maybe she would get through this. “Oh Angelique.” He kissed the top of her head, the silken tresses soft against his cheek. He tightened his hold in her. “I am so sorry. If I hadn’t let you leave...he wouldn’t...”  
She shushed him. “I don’t want to talk about him. I want to show you how grateful I am. You saved me. Saved my life.” She began to unbutton her shirt. Hastings was so shocked that Angelique had removed the garment completely before he forced himself to do the right thing. He sprang back from her touch, as if she was a hot flame sent to burn him. “Angelique, stop right now. Put that back on. I don’t want you...that is, I have no expectations...this is wrong, you’re not thinking straight, this isn’t what you want.” Blushing furiously, and not knowing where to look, Hastings ran away from her.

 

Chapter 8

Angelique stayed hidden in Hastings’ room for days. They had taken turns trying to coax her out. None had succeeded. Meals had been left outside the door had largely been ignored, she had picked at the food and returned it. Hastings had taken to sitting outside reading to her. He read the paper, novels, anything to illicit some kind of response from her. He knew there was nothing in there with which she could harm herself – this was his only comfort and the sole reason he had yet to break down the door. He was wracked with guilt over how he had left things. Her words now came back to haunt him. “Who is going to want this?” He should have handled it better. She felt rejected. He had achieved nothing except to confirm what she believed – what James had made her believe, that no-one wanted her.   
Two weeks into her self-imposed isolation, Poirot had gone away for a few days on a case. Hastings had refused to leave the flat for any length of time. He had fallen asleep on the sofa, as was his habit these days, but he was a light sleeper ever since his army days. It was nighttime, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out a figure, wrapped in a blanket, curled in the opposite armchair. She was watching him. As he sat up, she gave him a small smile and nodded at a tray on the coffee table. “I made tea, but I didn’t know how you take it. I was going to ask, but you were sleeping. Now it’s cold.”  
“You should have woken me. Never mind. I’ll make a fresh pot.   
“I didn’t know if I should wake you. I thought you might be angry.”  
“I would never be angry with you.” Tea made, Hastings put it on the table, took Angelique’s hand and sat her down on the sofa with him. “No-one here will hurt you. I’m angry at the situation, but not with you. It’s important that you know you are safe here.”  
“I know. You could have come barging in anytime you wanted. I almost expected you to. I thought that was why you brought me here.”  
“Is that what you meant that night.”  
“Yes. I thought if I offered myself to you then it would be easier than...” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Burying her head in her hands, Hastings could barely make out what she was saying. It tore him to pieces to hear how little she valued herself. Feeling hopelessly inadequate, he held her close, trying to reassure her.   
Poirot had cabled Hastings to let him know when he would be returning, and when he entered his flat the following evening, he was met with an entirely different scene from the one he had left. The table was half-laid for tea, jazz was playing on the radio, and he could hear laughter coming from the kitchen. He recognised Hastings’ laugh immediately, but there was a light, feminine tone. He peered round the door and observed the most wonderful sight. Their guest was wearing a charming green dress, her long hair styled in glorious curls. She was making tea and, having kicked of her shoes was giving Hastings a Charleston lesson. As they danced, he twirled her around. Sighting Poirot, she shrieked and dropped the cup she was holding. As it shattered on the tiled floor, her eyes widened and she began to back away. Hastings’ heart sank. She had come so far, that to see such a conditioned reaction to an accident, was truly painful. She began to sweep up, words of apology tumbling out of her mouth. Poirot crouched down and took the dustpan from her. “Mademoiselle, it is of little consequence. It is merely a cup. Do not distress yourself, my only concern is that you have not hurt yourself.”  
As he swept the shards of china away, the tension left her body. Poirot turned back to her and smiled. “I never cared for those teacups anyway.”   
Angelique’s laugh was the best thing they had heard in weeks.

 

Chapter 9

In the weeks Angelique stayed with them, she blossomed. She hated being so dependent on them, but an excursion out of doors proved that she was still terrified of male strangers. Poirot employed her as an assistant for Miss Lemon, and the older woman became more than just a friend to her young protegee. Angelique herself proved to be a quick study, learning the finer points of Miss Lemon’s filing system more efficiently than many thought possible. She helped with some of the household duties, keen to please and quick to learn. One afternoon she was alone in the flat, curled in her favourite chair with a copy of Jane Austen. She was so engrossed in the story she didn’t hear the door open, signalling Hastings’ return from lunch. As she turned the page, a rectangular package, tied with a silver ribbon landed in her lap. Startled she looked up. “Arthur! I didn’t hear you come in. Shall I make you some tea?”  
“Certainly not – I’ll do that. You stay where you are and open your present.” She dropped the package and eyed it suspiciously.  
“So that’s it. Make me feel safe and happy and then spring this on me? Buy me a present so now I owe you something? I thought I could trust you. Well, I was - am grateful, so I guess you should take what you want.” Hasting was staring at her. He couldn’t believe they were taking this massive step backward over such a little thing as a present. Slowly realisation dawned.   
“Has no-one ever bought you a present before?”  
“James did sometimes. But there was always an expectation. Presents were conditional on me being…grateful.”  
Hastings was utterly appalled. He thought she had begun to think for herself by now, but she still believed the poison he had filled her head with. “Angelique, it really is just a present. No catches, no conditions, I promise you. I saw it in a shop and I thought you might like it. It’s nothing fancy, you deserve to be given gold and rubies and diamonds, hell you deserve the world. But this is just a little thing I thought would suit you. Please open it.” I held it out to her. Still looking at it as though it might bite her, she opened the box. Inside was a delicate silver chain, suspended from which was a silver rose, decorated with yellow enamel. She held it up, admiring it in the light. He took it from her and walked her over to a mirror. She lifted her hair while he fastened it around her slender neck. Beating back the urge to kiss her nape, he moved back and leant on the door frame. “I knew it would suit you. There’s a language of flowers you know.” She looked at him in the mirror, clearly surprised. “Red roses are for love, white roses are for innocence and purity, and yellow ones are for friendship and devotion.”  
“No body ever bought me flowers before. I like having one that will last forever. It’s beautiful, thank you.” She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek and danced off into the kitchen. He followed her and set about brewing some coffee. While it brewed, he watched Angelique. She moved around the room with the grace of a dancer. As she reached up to the top of a cabinet, she overstretched her small frame. Hastings saw her begin to fall and managed to catch her in time to prevent her head from hitting the floor. He held her, as he had often done, breathing hard. He straightened up and set her on her feet, his hands lingering on her waist. Her hands were on his shoulders and neither could tear their eyes from the other. His arms tightened around her, and her hands slid up into his hair. He tried to make the kiss gentle and tender, but she had been so starved of love she couldn’t help herself. Her passionate French blood coursed through her and into that one kiss she poured desperation and need. A kiss so full of fire it could burn down a city. So passionate it consumed them both. 

 

Chapter 10

Poirot returned the next day, full of triumph. He regaled Hastings and Angelique with the details; she listened, enthralled. It made Hastings smile to see her enjoying herself. He missed being alone with her. She had no expectations of him, never wanted anything from him. He thought the world of Poirot, of course he did, but he could never fill the cracks in his heart. The war had taken it’s toll on him, he knew this. So he understood nightmares. He understood how it felt knowing that you had a target on your back. He wasn’t sure when it had happened; the transition from the need to save her and shield her from danger, to being so desperately in love with her.   
Miss Lemon beckoned him inside her little office and shut the door. “She’s a sweet girl, Captain Hastings. I’ve seen you looking at her.” She looked at him over the rim of her glasses, with the air of a lioness protecting her cub.   
“Miss Lemon, I can assure you I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”  
“If I thought otherwise, Captain, you wouldn’t be standing here. I know it’s not my place, and if it was any other girl, it would be none of my business, but…  
Hastings kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll take the best care of her, I promise. I’d move mountains for her if she asked me. Hell, she doesn’t even need to ask.”  
A noise behind caused them to turn. Poirot and Angelique were standing at the little window. She was staring at them, Poirot behind her, with a knowing smile on his face. Given that everything now seemed out in the open, Hastings rounded the corner into the living room and seized his heart’s desire.  
“Arthur, do you mean it?”  
“Every damn word. I love you. If you’ll have me, I’ll keep you safe forever. I’ll buy you roses every day and ’ll chase your nightmares away every night.”  
“And that about your nightmares? Will you let me chase them? Can we keep each other safe?”  
Hastings smiled, and captured her in a gentle kiss. “Everyone needs saving sometimes.”


End file.
